


Might as well Swim

by ShitpostingfromtheBarricade



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Get-Together Fic, Granjolras, Grantaire pov, M/M, also jbm are the bro-est of bros, enjoltaire - Freeform, ft namedrops of real apps and programs, jbm finally makes more than a passing appearance in a fic omg, jeremiah the cactus is the real star of this fic, r plays neko atsume and we all know it, the shitpostiest shitpost, true absurdity through and through
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 16:05:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16349759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade/pseuds/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade
Summary: Bossuet challenges Grantaire to make a themed playlist, which can only end well.Warnings: language, discussion of sex, implied sexual content





	Might as well Swim

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-read by the incredible [PieceOfCait](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PieceOfCait/pseuds/PieceOfCait). A _lot_ of clean-up and polishing went into making this presentable, and she deserves all of the credit.
> 
> I own none of the content (songs, apps, movies, websites) referred to in this work.

Grantaire regrets every decision in his life that has led to this moment. 

He regrets allowing himself to be pressured into his first free Spotify account. He regrets applying to the university that led him to meet Bossuet. He regrets Michael Eisner’s animosity toward Jeffrey Katzenberg. He regrets being alive any time after and including the year 1994. He regrets whatever Freudian childhood event that might have developed into his painful attraction to the absolutely unattainable. 

Mostly he regrets being here right now to face the consequences of his actions.

\---

“Bossuet, what the fuck is this?”

“R, I’m driving, you’re going to have to be more specific.”

“‘Sex with Musichetta,’ ‘Sex with Joly,’ ‘Musi-Butter and Jolllly’?”

“Yeah, it’s like peanut butter and jelly but—”

“I get it, I just don’t know why you have separate dedicated playlists for all of your combinations?”

The man shrugs, eyes still focused on the road. “The dynamics are very different.”

“How?” asks Grantaire in confused disbelief.

They’ve finally come to a stoplight, and Bossuet glances briefly at Grantaire, both hands firmly on the wheel. “Don’t tell me you’ve never been in a relationship long enough to notice different personalities in the bedroom.”

Grantaire lets several opportunities for crude responses pass him by with grace. “I mean, yeah, it’s different with everyone, but…different enough to warrant personalized playlists? A dirty song is a dirty song.”

“I don’t know how to explain it. With Muse and me, it’s…it’s burning. Passionate. And then with Joly, things are more gentle and playful. And then all of us together…it’s like choreographed magic. Unruly and unconventional at times, and always something to be doing. The mindset is just totally different.” He shrugs. “And the playlists amplify that. You don’t think sex with Enjolras would warrant the same music as sex with some one-night stand, do you?”

Grantaire feels a blush burn on his neck but has the composure to keep it from spreading. It’s not that he’s never imagined sex with Enjolras before—God, it’s hard to speak with Enjolras and concurrently think about anything else—but to score it? To plan for the rises and falls? 

“How about this: if you make an Enjolras Sex Playlist and let me hear it, I’ll pay for your Premium subscription for a year.”

Grantaire considers this. “I want custody of Jeremiah on weekends.”

“Every other weekend.”

“Done.” The car ride stretches on between them in silence. “In the interest of inspiration, would you mind if we play—”

“I would really rather you not. We’re are in an enclosed space going to a public place, and this will not end well for either of us.”

\---

Grantaire sits at his laptop staring at the empty playlist. The only thing that betrays his goal is the title, “SONGS I WOULD FUCK ENJOLRAS TO,” challenging him in stark white letters against the charcoal background.

It’s impossible. He doesn’t know what Enjolras is like in the sack—nothing but wet dreams and dirty fantasies to help him there. If it were simply a matter of songs that he would want to have sex with Enjolras to, the task would be obscenely easy and overwhelming all at once: all of them. Any of them. He could get it up to Scandinavian yodeling if it meant Enjolras was available and willing.

Maybe he’s going about this the wrong way. It’s all hypothetical anyway, all he needs to do is play out a scenario--and Grantaire has plenty of those tucked away in the recesses of his mind.

He decides to start realistic: at the Musain. Fighting with Enjolras after a meeting. Things start to escalate, they move in too close to one another, red and impassioned from yelling—

In his heart, Grantaire knows a hate-fuck is probably the only condition under which he could ever have the chance to be intimate with Enjolras. He’d take the chance in a heartbeat, but he flinches all the same at the sentiment. Something metal, angry, pounding with a heavy beat then. Love-Hate-Sex-Pain by Godsmack, In Chains by Shaman’s Harvest, Bodies by Drowning Pool—

Okay, so this obviously isn’t going to work. Different theme then. Maybe something more sensual, more along the lines of Grantaire’s normal fantasies. Gentle kisses, languid movements, soft caresses with a burning drive underlying it. Work Song by Hozier, Earned It by The Weeknd, Blue Ocean Floor by Justin Timberlake, Get Low by Dan Henig—

Goddammit, cockblocking himself even in his imagination. His speculations quickly start getting more and more out of hand: trance. Country. Rick-Rolling his own hypothetical self on repeat for an hour.

Inspiration hits in the most unlikely of ways, and Grantaire’s fingers finally find the keyboard, scrambling to type in the letters as he cackles gloriously to himself in the dark room.

\---

“Forget my Master’s thesis, I present to you my Magnum Opus.”

Bossuet doesn’t even look away from the cards in his hand as he answers the bold man who has just allowed himself into their apartment unannounced. “The Master’s thesis you haven’t even begun?”

“And now I’ll never have to: everything after this will only be a disappointment, no point in stringing my adviser along any longer than I already have.”

Joly gives him an uncertain look from his spot on the sofa, but Bossuet has apparently already pieced together Grantaire’s meaning. “Muse is making popcorn, give her a minute to get out here before you blow us all away.”

Grantaire greets Musichetta with a kiss to each cheek and the liberation of her popcorn when she finally enters the main room. Joly packs up the cards half-heartedly as Bossuet relates the particulars of his and Grantaire’s agreement to his partners, Grantaire busying himself setting up their monthly game of Risk.

“We lost Jeremiah on weekends?” cries Joly.

“Only every other weekend, be easy,” soothes Grantaire.

“And only,” interjects Musichetta, “if R delivers.”

He clears his throat, unlocking his phone and handing it to Bossuet without moving his eyes from Musichetta. “I deserve to see my cactus-child, and I believe that I have earned that right.” He redirects his attentions to Bossuet. “You will find it under my playlists.”

Bossuet takes the phone, swiping several times before making an impressed sound. “Forty songs? Dang R, sounds like imaginary Enjolras is in for the time of his life.”

Grantaire shrugs ostentatiously. “Just let me know if I need to leave the room at any point for you three,” he adds with a lascivious wink. Musichetta clutches her hand to her breast in mock-breathlessness, and Joly and Bossuet exchange devilish grins.

Bossuet did not look at the list before hooking the phone up to the aux and pressing play, and Grantaire thanks every God in every pantheon that he didn’t for the reaction that the song elicits.

“ _Some-BODY once told me—_ ”

Grantaire pretends to seriously consider the map in front of him as his friends fall over each other in laughter, only breaking the façade when he finally looks up at them with a cheesy grin. 

“Why are you like this?” Joly gasps out at last through a still-steady stream of giggles.

Grantaire assumes his solemn visage once more. “Joly,” he says seriously. “Are you kinkshaming me right now? Because I was told when I entered these doors by you yourself that this was a body-positive space—” The laughter only gets more hysterical, Joly pulling himself around the table to cry his peals of mirth into Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire attempts to resume his speech, now fighting his own laughter as well and morphing it into dramatic sobs. “A body-positive space, and I am not feeling very reassured about my body and its positivity in this space!”

“Shh, shh, shh,” manages Joly around his laughter, stroking Grantaire’s hair clumsily. “We love and accept you for who you are, Smash Mouth-kink and all.”

Bossuet apparently has gotten enough control over himself to argue this point: “Joly, our son could be Shrek-sexual, we haven’t heard the rest of the playlist yet.” Bossuet takes several more breaths, reclaiming control over his body before continuing. “And we love and accept you either way,” he says, reaching around and putting his hand on Grantaire’s shoulder nurturingly. Even through the laughter, somewhere in his brain wishes that his actual coming-out had been as accepting.

“Grantaire,” says Musichetta from across the table, reaching out for his hand. “I still love you, and you are still our son. Do you,” she pauses, looking him in the eye and trying desperately to bite back laughter. “Do you have any resources for me to start with, to better grasp how I can support you and understand your Shreksuality?”

Grantaire never has to answer: as the final notes fade out, everyone strains to listen for what could possibly be worthy of following such a classic.

“ _Some-BODY once told me—_ ” 

By the fourth time, everyone is finally composed enough to begin placing their pieces on the board.

By the seventh time, Joly is arguing custodial rights over Jeremiah on grounds of laziness.

By the eleventh time, the song has faded to background noise, something to nod your head in time to while Joly takes more time on his turn than the other three combined.

After All Star has played sixteen times, Grantaire is certain that no group of people have ever had such a spectacular response to the opening strains of La Marseillaise as the company he keeps at this moment. By the time the song is fading out, everyone has regained enough composure to be standing, hands over their hearts and proudly proclaiming the verses they know and inventing the ones they don’t.

The first All Star that follows their beloved national anthem is received with good-hearted resignation as they take their seats once more. 

“Weird song to break an otherwise perfect streak for,” Bossuet comments.

“If he wasn’t standing at full attention before I wanted to be sure he was given the proper incentive.”

Two hours after the playlist made its dramatic entrance, it makes its quiet retreat with the sound of waves and low grumbles.

“What exactly are we listening to?” Musichetta asks. “Not that I’m not grateful.”

“Whale sounds.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I tried to find a nice two-hour one like they have on Youtube, but Spotify failed me on that point, so I just have to hope that one minute and thirty-one seconds is sufficient time for Enjolras to bask in his afterglow.”

“You mean to tell me,” Bossuet balks, “that you’re not meant to ejaculate at Steve Harwell’s first word and spend the following three minutes and eighteen seconds basking?”

Grantaire pretends to consider the point. “I suppose there are all sorts of ways to appreciate art.”

“At any rate,” Joly says, looking at the screen as he strains to unplug the phone from the speakers. “It would seem that you already have a follower!”

“Ah, a fellow connoisseur and appreciator of the finer things in life,” Grantaire intones with false haughtiness.

Grantaire looks back at the board to review his rapidly-dwindling options. By now it’s down to only him and Musichetta, and he doesn’t think he can hold her off much longer.

“Oceania,” she says triumphantly as she makes her final roll. “All the strategy this game truly takes is Oceania.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Grantaire grins, helping Joly and Bossuet pack up the game as Musichetta reaps the benefits of victory. 

They’ve all said their good-byes, and Grantaire is nearly out the door with Jeremiah tucked cautiously under his arm when he pokes his head back in the room. “By the way, I don’t know what your plans for tonight are, but if you need me to send you a link for the playlist—”

The door manages to catch all three pillows lobbed in his direction, and he grins with the satisfaction of another challenge successfully undertaken and overcome.

\--- 

Grantaire arrives on the welcome mat to Combeferre and Enjolras’s apartment at 4:07PM, exactly as intended. After weeks of this, Enjolras doesn’t even seem irritated when he answers the door, inviting him in with something that feels suspiciously close to warmth.

“So, what’s the flavor of the week?” he asks, leaning against the counter.

“Carbon credits.” Somehow, in all of Enjolras’s busyness the years prior, he had missed a basic gen ed debate requirement; most graduate students would barely pay the 100-level course more than the most cursory amount of attention, but leave it to Enjolras to view the whole situation as an opportunity to convert the masses. Grantaire couldn’t even count himself surprised when Enjolras called the skeptic over to review his points for the first topic of the term, and it has since become a weekly ritual for Grantaire to tear apart every stance he argues before his weekly in-class debate.

“Make anyone cry this week?”

“No,” Enjolras answers, looking thoughtful. “But it’s only Wednesday.”

“That’s the spirit,” commends Grantaire. “Is ‘Ferre in? It’s high time I return his books to him.” He pulls a stack of four books from his rucksack, holding them aloft. 

“He’s out visiting his parents. Told me not to expect him back until Sunday.”

“Damn. I was really hoping to talk with him about them. Maybe next week, then.”

“I’ve read them,” Enjolras volunteers. Grantaire blinks at the man. “We could discuss them, if you’d like.”

“I mean.” What does Grantaire mean? “Combeferre’s really into them. I wouldn’t want to bore you with all of that.”

“I also really enjoyed them.” Enjolras says this with a seriousness not usually reserved for media that people enjoyed consuming.

“Okay then. Yeah, we can do that after we look over your paper?”

Enjolras nods, tapping a password into his laptop and nudging it in front of the empty seat beside him.

Grantaire sits down and reads exactly ten pages of arguments—the professor’s newly-instated maximum length before citations—in a suspicious 11.5 point font before he speaks.

“Yeah, so, let’s start by referring to statistics from the past five years and our collective common sense, shall we?”

 

It’s nearly 7:00 when Grantaire even thinks to check the time. 

“Shit, I didn’t realize how late it was!” he exclaims, jumping up from the table.

“No worries, we’ll just order something in.”

“I left my wallet at home, I really wasn’t expecting to be out this late.” He’s already gathering his things, pulling on his coat and looking for his bag.

“Grantaire.” Enjolras’s tone stops him in his tracks. “Really. It’s no problem. You should stay: it’s the least I can do to thank you for proofing my arguments every week.”

Grantaire slowly, reluctantly slides back into his seat and pulls his coat back off, trying to distract himself on his phone while Enjolras puts their order in online. He fumbles four games of Temple Run in under a minute before resigning himself to redecorating his virtual cat house.

By the time food’s arrived, the paper has been finalized, and carbon credits has somehow evolved into a debate on the impact of media piracy on artists. Three more topics and most of Grantaire’s takeout later, he stumbles upon a major discovery.

“You’ve never seen any Studio Ghibli movies? Howl’s Moving Castle is classic!”

Enjolras shrugs. “Apparently not classic enough to have been introduced to me before now.”

“Well we have to watch it.” He checks his phone. “Shit. Nevermind, let’s table that for next time.”

“Do you have something to do tomorrow?”

“An afternoon class and an evening shift.”

“Why don’t you stay?”

Grantaire makes a face. “This from the guy who leaves the bar no later than 10PM to assure he gets his full eight hours beauty rest?”

“Do you think Courfeyrac would ever let me leave a bar early if I was anything less than consistent?”

A delighted smile spreads across Grantaire’s face. “You dirty cheater! Damn, you live with ‘Ferre, I should have known that sleeping habits in this residence weren’t a real priority.”

Enjolras gives a proud half-shrug. “You said it’s on Netflix?”

 

Grantaire is curled at one end of the three-person sofa with a book--apparently, the book that the movie is based off of. After their discussion of the movie devolved into an argument over the politics therein and it became clear that Grantaire and Enjolras were referring to two different source materials, the blond had stormed out of the room, wordlessly shoving the book into Grantaire’s hands on his return. Grantaire has decided that if Enjolras is ignoring the inscription on the front page hoping that a young ‘E’ enjoys the book as well as he does its cinematic counterpart, Grantaire is too. 

At the other end of the sofa, Enjolras fiddles with his phone. “Would you mind if I played some music?”

“Not at all.” Grantaire has never known Enjolras to be one of those people who always has to be listening to music, but who is he to deny a man his music in his own home?

“ _Some-BODY once told me—_ ”

Grantaire freezes. The only indications that time continues to pass are his ever-increasing heartrate thumping in his ears and the damned song continuing to play blithely through its first verse as if Grantaire’s life isn’t ending at 104 beats per minute alongside it.

And thus, the regret.

It feels like a horror movie when he finally brings himself to turn his head to face Enjolras, who remains at the other end of the couch, bright red from his collar up and staring steadfastly at Grantaire.

The music clicks off. “From your reaction, I will assume this was a joke.”

An out. Yes. This was a joke, but if Enjolras doesn’t already know the seed of truth it sprouted from he certainly doesn’t need to be corrected now. “Yes, it was. I am so sor—”

“It wasn’t a very funny joke.”

Indignance builds inside of Grantaire at that. “You weren’t supposed to know about it,” he snaps, shutting the book in sharp unison. “How did you even find it?”

Enjolras’s arms cross over his chest as he turns forward, looking away from Grantaire with furrowed brows. “I follow all of our friends on Spotify. It showed up as a recommended playlist.” 

Betrayed by technology. He should have listened to his _avó_ —but then, he’d never realized it would be so soon and had always assumed his inevitable demise would be one of the more cancerous variety. 

Now that he has more than suitably embarrassed himself on every front that matters, Grantaire’s wits are finally returning to him accompanied by an overwhelming amount of shame and embarrassment. He makes another attempt at a proper apology, eyes darting down to his lap.

“I really am sorry. It was a joke, but,” he pauses for a moment, trying to keep his voice steady. “Not at your expense. Not supposed to be, anyway. I’ll delete it.” He swallows, face hot and utterly unable to face the man sitting across the sofa from him.

There’s a long silence, and Grantaire thinks that Enjolras might not accept his apology. Grantaire has already been mentally restructuring his life to accommodate his sudden need to never being in the same room as the man again, but somehow the thought of Enjolras rejecting his sincere admission feels overwhelming.

“La Marseillaise was a nice touch,” Enjolras quietly admits. Grantaire’s attention returns to the blond to see a bashful half-smile playing across his face. Grantaire’s nervous system allows him a clipped laugh in disbelief.

“I figured any listeners would deserve something to break up the monotony of thirty-eight All Stars. Given the subject, it did seem the only proper choice.” He keeps his eyes on Enjolras to gauge his reaction, but he cautiously allows himself a deep breath and a half-smirk. “It’s Smash Mouth’s finest work, don’t get me wrong, but its place is firmly in the opening of Shrek.”

“So…all of it. The whole—everything. It was a joke.” Enjolras sounds like he might almost believe Grantaire and is looking for some final confirmation.

Grantaire tries to grasp the moment, fixing the man with a look. “I have and will never fuck anyone or anything to any song featured on any Shrek soundtrack.”

Enjolras actually smiles. “Well I suppose that’s a relief. I tried to…” Words seem to fail Enjolras, and he makes a vague gesture with his hand in lieu of them. “But it turned out to be more of an exercise in blocking it out than anything else.”

“Wait, you mean to say you…” He can’t bring himself to say the word he wants. In awkward substitution, he offers, “Listened? To the playlist?” He isn’t sure if he wants Enjolras to understand the true question underlying what he asks or not.

“I mean…I was hopeful?”

Grantaire’s mouth goes dry as Enjolras peers up at him through blond lashes, blush not having subsided in the least.

“Right. Okay. Yeah, so new plan: I’ll read this,” he waves Enjolras’s book, “at some point in time that is not right now, and we’re just not going to worry about Spotify for the rest of the night. Sound like a plan?”

“Great plan.”

\---

It’s always good to see the Amis outside of meetings. Feuilly couldn’t make it, but everyone else is in the apartment that Bossuet shares with the two greatest people in the world, and Bossuet can’t stop smiling. He stays directly outside of the threshold of the kitchen where Musichetta has decided he is best-suited, accompanied by Bahorel as the two collectively carry six bowls of stovetop popcorn out to their friends. 

“Hey, hosts’ choice: what’re we watching tonight?” Courfeyrac calls just before Bossuet returns to his post.

“Not sure, Joly pulled something up on the laptop right before everyone started arriving.”

There’s still another several minutes before the remaining bowls of popcorn will be ready, so he leans on the wall next to Bahorel.

“What’s going on with R and Enjolras?” Bahorel asks once Bossuet is settled.

“Hm?” He glances down the hall where he can see Grantaire sitting in an armchair, Enjolras on the floor bracketed between his knees. It looks like they’re involved in completely separate conversations, but somehow it’s clear that they are distinctly aware of one another and acting in a sort of synchronization. “Not sure. Whatever it is, though, it looks like it’s for the better.”

“Mmm.” Bossuet doesn’t need to look up at the man to know he’s nodding, a smile on his face.

When the popcorn is finally up, the bowls distributed, and everyone settled in, Courfeyrac is finally allowed to start the movie.

The Dreamworks logo plays across the screen as the lights turn off. Bossuet settles in next to Joly, popcorn already tipping into their laps, which Musichetta complains about loudly with no real heat. A storybook opens across the projector screen, and the narration begins.

“Oven.” All eyes turn to Grantaire. “I left my oven on. Enjolras, can you drive me over?”

“Absolutely.” Enjolras looks from Grantaire to the rest of the room. “I was his ride, so I need to drive him.”

“You also drove me,” Combeferre reminds him as Grantaire barely avoids tripping over him.

“We’ll be right back, it’s just. The oven. Safety first, y’know?” Grantaire is already at the open door holding Enjolras’s coat out for him, which the latter man grabs as he hastily exits, the former following close behind.

“That was…” Éponine begins.

“Odd?” Combeferre volunteers.

“Weird as _fuck_ ,” Courfeyrac confirms.

Everyone’s attention quickly returns to the screen before them as the storybooks slams shut and the movie begins in earnest. Bossuet, Joly, and Musichetta’s collective hysterical laughter earn some alarmed looks when the opening song begins a few seconds later:

“ _Some-BODY once told me—_ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6tuFp7U5Ax4oNaG8Yu8Atb?fbclid=IwAR3N1qucprO9qF8Ocyyi1f8HDrIfPcarkEmhrvrVN8SqBqaoNL_gHp-sGrY) for the interested. 
> 
> Work inspired by [this post](https://shitpostingfromthebarricade.tumblr.com/post/175121630678/andy-allan-poe-my-boyfriend-is-a-meme). There is also undeniable Salt & Pepper Diner influence at work.
> 
> I have never put as much research into any drabble as I did into this one.
> 
> Obscure details throughout:   
> Eisner is a Disney exec that fired Katzenburg and arguably led to Dreamworks and Shrek being created.   
> Smash Mouth was formed in 1994.   
> [Bodies by Drowning Pool](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e8-sMJZTYf0) is not a very romantic (or even hate sex-y) song.   
> Neither is [Get Low by Dan Henig](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ilajXR6fn3o) (you should still give it a listen). 
> 
> Don't let R of all people kinkshame you: the Shrek series has some serious bangers. If you want to have sex to the Shrek soundtrack, go out and live your best life. (and anyway, R's a giant hypocrite anyway)
> 
> If you have any feelings at all for me or about this piece, comment below OR message me on [tumblr](http://shitpostingfromthebarricade.tumblr.com)!! (really, your comments mean everything to me)


End file.
